Zenna Vortex: Mistletoe and Moonlight
by LA Knight
Summary: Mistletoe and moonlight. Polar opposites. One lethal, one cataclysmic. And both are what will draw an extraordinary werewolf and one unextraordinary witch together.
1. 00 What is Love? The Execution

**Mistletoe and Moonlight**

**Prologue**

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Greyback snarled at his guards as they strode into his cell, wands aloft, but it was half-hearted at best. Now that they were no longer working with dementors, the inmates of Azkaban no longer had to worry about the effects of prolonged exposure to the creatures. That didn't mean anything to Fenrir Greyback. The werewolf bared blood-darkened, strangely pointed teeth in a freakish parody of a smile. This might be interesting. Were the goody-goody wizards going to try and go a round of "mental rehabilitation." Or was this it? He'd been told of his impending execution. Was this it?

"Stand up, Greyback," the left-hand goody-goody ordered. She was a petite little witch with curly, fly-away black hair and eyes like a hawk's. Her wand, however, was long, tapered almost to a point, made of birch wood. The werewolf could smell her contempt for him. He must have looked a sight – hair long, graying, shaggy and unkempt, nails like a vulture's talons, teeth like a wild animal, whiskers rugged and dark against the sallowness of his skin. The wolf-man's freak smile stretched wider.

Like a stretching panther, Fenrir got to his feet and cracked his spine. He grinned, and he noticed that the petite little witch had to force herself not to step back from him. Even now, in his ragged, dirty robes, he still cut an imposing figure.

"No tricks now," the wizard flanking the door informed him. The hem of his deep plum robes – the new color of the wizarding guards – were spattered with what looked like soot. Just come off the Floo Network, then. Dark skinned, with a ruby in his nose, the wizard pointed a stout, hawthorn wand straight at Greyback's chest.

"Time, then, is it?" Fenrir's voice was a rumbling growl in his chest. "Let's start this party, then, eh?"

They marched him through the halls of the wizarding prison. He kept his head high as he walked, ignoring the bleary-eyed stares of the inmates in their cells. The notorious werewolf was to have a public execution using the Killing Curse. Now that the dementors had been labeled as Dark creatures, no one used the Dementors' Kiss anymore. Fenrir grinned without mirth. No living soulless for him. He'd just be plain dead. Maybe then _the Daily Prophet_ would forget about him and stop bothering Misty....

"In here," the witch ordered, practically shoving him through a doorway into a wood-paneled room. With a single sniff, he knew that the wood paneling and flooring of the place was mistletoe.

Everyone knew that silver repelled werewolves, as it did vampires. But the wood of the mistletoe plant, toxic when eaten by humans, was lethal to all lycanthropes in large enough doses. All they'd have to do, Greyback mused, was leave him in this room long enough and he would sicken and die.

"Fenrir Greyback," a deep, rumbling voice – very familiar – broke the unnatural silence of the room.

The werewolf turned to see that a Shield Charm had been erected between the audience the Ministry had gathered and Fenrir himself. The speaker was the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. With a sardonic nod of his head, Greyback saluted him with a raised middle finger. The werewolf received his own subscription of _the Daily Prophet_ even while in prison – the Ministry, seeing no point to the matter, had neglected to deny the inmates of Azkaban such a small privilege – and he'd read the things the Minister had said about a woman named Misty Silversmith. The Minister had had some very unpleasant things to say about Misty.

"Fenrir Greyback," Shacklebolt repeated. "You have been accused and convicted of murder, assault, treason, sorcerous and chemical warfare, and aiding and abetting the Dark wizard known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his plot against Britain. You are hereby sentenced to death by the Killing Curse, to be administered in fifteen minutes. Have you anything to say for yourself before your execution? Any words of regret, remorse, apology?"

A tectonic laugh surged up in Fenrir's chest and rumbled out of his mouth. His shoulders shook with mirth. Regret? Remorse? Anything to say? Oh, he had plenty to say to those mealy-mouthed pencil-pushing pin dicks in the Ministry, and something else for that total bitch Rita Skeeter. Sounds that would have been giggles in a much smaller, less ferocious man poured out of his mouth. Words? Words?

"I'll tell you what I have to say, Shacklebolt. That bitch Skeeter – she'd better get her hooks out of my Misty before someone in my pack takes personal offense."

"Mr. Greyback." Such formal address wrenched the werewolf's attention from the tall, black man to the rail-thin, curly-haired witch whose acid-inked quill worked for _the Prophet_. Seeing she had his undivided attention, Rita Skeeter demanded, "You have approximately fifteen minutes before you're going to die. Do you have anything you wish to say or explain? I'd like to interview you in the time remaining. What is your relationship with Misty Silversmith?"

Before he could stop himself, he roared, "None of your damn business!" The blood was suddenly rushing through his head with a mad thundering.

"Is it true that the witch known as Mistletoe Silversmith is your lover and was residing at your home after the return of You-Know-Who? Were you two secretly married? Is it true that she is pregnant with your child? Is it true that Ms. Silversmith is a Death Eater and it was she who recruited you to You-Know-Who's side? Is it true-"

"Mistletoe Silversmith's case has already been evaluated by the Ministry and we have no cause to believe," said Shacklebolt, "that she is a Death Eater. I will not have an innocent woman accused of-"

"But, Minister, you yourself have said some rather disparaging things about...."

Fenrir ignored the reporter and the Minister of Magic. He saw the acid green Quick-Quotes Quill scratching rapidly across the parchment. He picked out "angry lover" and "fiercely protective" from the few lines visible. He wasn't sure if she were referring to Misty or himself. But then the werewolf saw movement near the back of the audience and froze. His rictus grin slipped a notch. In the back of the crowd, wearing a dark blue cloak over her white wizarding robes, was a woman with ash blond hair and eyes the color of evergreen leaves. Slowly, one of those vernal eyes winked at him.

His eyes darted through the crowd. Many of the audience members were still wearing cloaks – a visitor to one of the inmates had cast a jinx on half of Azkaban to make the ceilings rain – but beneath the hoods Fenrir recognized several people.

A wizard with white blond hair and pale gray eyes, holding an ash wand in one massive fist. Beside him stood a young woman with Sidhe scarlet hair and vernal eyes. A witch whose white hair was streaked with green dye had those same eyes. Near her, but far enough away to avoid suspicion, a young man, barely seventeen, stood scruffing his raggedly chopped dark brown hair, glancing nervously around with eyes the color of hawthorn leaves. And then he noticed something bigger – some of those cloaked, hooded figures had the worn, shabby look of the werewolf. His pack was here.

His pack... and Misty and her family.

Misty....

They had to call his name more than once. He finally heard them, and looked at Shacklebolt. Now was the time. The petite witch and the soot-sodden wizard aimed their wands at his heart. Beads of sweat stood out on the wizard's forehead. Greyback forced his mouth to stretch into a mad grin. He wanted to cast his eyes back to the crowd, to find Misty's green eyes – if he couldn't have the taste of blood on his tongue and the scent of fear in his nostrils as he died, at least he could have had the sight of those green glass eyes locked in his mind.

Mistletoe Silversmith watched as the Azkaban wardens raised their wands to Greyback. She watched as the werewolf straightened his spine and squared his broad shoulders. They weren't going to kill him. If anyone was going to take out that murdering psychopath, it would be her. No Ministry goon was going to whack Fenrir Greyback. Movement caught her eye. Scattered throughout the crowd, her brothers and sisters all raised their wands. Surreptitiously, so did she.

She and her siblings whispered the spell as the Ministry goons' wand tips began to glow.

There was a flash of brilliant light.

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**Author's Note:** I don't own anything copyrighted by anyone who isn't me. As for the thing about mistletoe, I heard it on the episode of _Doctor Who_ called _Tooth and Claw_. Interestingly enough, the Doctor was played by David Tennant, who was the movie actor for Barty Crouch, Jr. in_ Goblet of Fire._


	2. 00 What is Love? The Interview

**Author's Note:** I generally do two prologues when I do romances – one focusing on the guy, one focusing on the girl. Here's the girl, but it switches from her point of view to Rita Skeeter, who's interviewing her, then back to Misty. Just so you guys don't get confused.

**Mistletoe and Moonlight**

**Prologue II  
What Is Love?**

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I would do this for him.

In my room, I stare at the mirror, at my reflection. My hair, long as a waterfall now, and my eyes like mistletoe leaves. My wand sits on my bathroom counter, looking innocent and white and deliciously poisonous with its sickly pale bark that gleams with the sheen of mistletoe oil – toxic. I wrap my arms around myself and remember that love is a dangerous thing, because love is what burns up who you were and turns you into who you become. I became a murderer for love, and a monster.

Even monsters deserve to be loved. They have to know that. In the end, when the dawn comes and all the monsters go back to their holes, those exiled creatures that stalk the dark go home to the ones who love them. Someone has to love them.

Was I wrong to fall in love with a murderer? Was I wrong to ignore his sins and see him as something wild and lawless, too beautiful and dangerous to be confined by men? I helped him to kill, helped him to maul and hurt and ravage. Because it was what he needed to stay as sane as he could. Did love blind me to his flaws? Or does love show you the truth – that the ones you love are not monsters, but victims? Which is it?

Now I look in the mirror, at myself in my black dress with my white jacket. My makeup is perfect. My heart is pounding like a drum. I want to tell everyone who he is, because none of them know the truth. They think he's a monster. They think he's evil. He isn't.

He is like everyone else – he needs. His needs, they wrench at him until he can't breathe. I know what that's like, needing something so badly you'll die if you don't get it. And because I love him, I will always make sure he has what he needs. I will never let him down.

It's time for the interview.

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"Of course, he's a psychopath. I knew that going in."

I was only here to get the story. After all, she was the one who started this whole mess. She was the witch who kept Greyback out of jail for three years after the fall of Voldemort. And she was the one who stepped in, taking matters into her own hands, at Fenrir Greyback's execution. What I wanted to know, was why? What had she hoped to gain from it all? Where was her common sense? This was the most sensational story I'd had since the Potter interview for _the Quibbler_. Now that Minister Shacklebolt had his finger in _the Daily Prophet_ pie, I couldn't do this interview for them, so back to _the Quibbler_ it was.

"But you claim you loved him."

"I don't claim, Ms. Skeeter," she replied, pushing back hair that fell in a white waterfall around her shoulders. "I love him."

"How _could_ you?" I demanded. "He's a raging psychopathic werewolf who worked for You-Know-Who. Surely any sane woman would recognize the potential for trouble in that kind of relationship."

I saw her glance at what my acid-green Quik-Quotes Quill was hastily scribbling on my parchment steno-pad. She only smiled at the words: _seemed strangely calm, considering we were discussing one of the most dangerous and notorious Death Eaters of them all. Fenrir Greyback was often used during the war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named against the parents of young children, as a means to force them to throw their support to the Dark wizard. Yet Ms. Silversmith smiles and says that she loved Fenrir Greyback with all of her heart and soul-_

"Love," she said.

"What?"

"I love him, not loved him. I still love him."

"He murdered your mother," I said. I could feel my toes curling in my lovely, new acid-green pumps. "Surely that earned him your enmity-"

"Do you know what love is, Ms. Skeeter?"

She asked this, and leaned in towards me. Her breath smelled of mint. Her hair gleamed like ice. Mistletoe "Misty" Silversmith was a strange witch. She tapped her wand against her bare foot, and kept a thick strand of hair over one brilliantly green eye. The smile stretching her lips made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. I glanced at my Quik-Quotes Quill and saw that the lovely little device had recorded my reaction.

"Love," she said, "is a dangerous angel. It stabs you like a knife, and it hurts. And like a leech, it will never let you go. Love is a disease that only humans catch, and once you've caught it, you can't live without it. It wipes away the imperfections and the flaws, and creates a pedestal of marble for the one you love to stand on."

Now, her eyes found mine, burning with an inner light that made my mouth go dry.

"I have seen him maul men with bare hands and fingernails. Seen him beat wizards to death with only his two fists. Shred people in the form of a werewolf. He has come home covered in the blood and slime and gore of countless victims. It was what he needed, so I let him have it. I don't care about people I've never met before, Ms. Skeeter. I, too, have my sociopathic tendencies. We all do. I only cared about the man I loved and what he needed to survive and be happy."

I don't know what to say to that. I've never interviewed a killer or a killer's accomplice who was this candid about the whole thing. Her absent gaze as she stares out the window is more than a little unnerving. Misty Silversmith looks more like a lovesick girl than a mentally unbalanced woman. But things cannot be that simple.

"Everyone has needs, Ms. Skeeter. It took me a while to realize that, but it's true. Fenrir and I... our needs mesh fairly well."

"And... and how's that?" I asked.

"He needs blood and death and pain. I need him. We each get what we want."

"Now... now, I have a question." I wouldn't show this girl how much she unnerved me. I was Rita Skeeter, reporter. I would not be intimidated by someone almost a decade younger than me. "Why you? Why would Fenrir Greyback choose to – excuse my language – shack up with you, of all people? You're not a werewolf, are you?"

"No, actually. I'm not. It is a rather interesting story. Full of death, danger, romance, and murder most foul, of course." Misty laughed at that. The hairs on the nape of my neck rose up on end as if I'd been electrified. She turned her dark eyes on me. "I suppose you'll want to hear it?"

"Erm... how long will it take?"

"I don't know."

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Twirling a lock of silver hair around two fingers, I smiled at the reporter. She really was a lovely woman. Blond, dark eyed, sharp tongued, quick witted. I knew that Fenrir wouldn't have hesitated to shred her to bloody bits back during the Dark Lord's reign. But even if the inclination had arisen now, I couldn't have let him. I needed her alive.

"Don't know?" She asks. Her voice strangles her as it comes out. "Well, I can only stay for so long, Ms. Silversmith-"

An idiot wouldn't miss the look she cast anxiously towards the kitchen window. My heart pounded. Was she going to try and run? She couldn't do that. I needed her, blast it. She couldn't do that! I sucked in a breath, calming myself. My heart skipped in my chest. The interview was my idea, but the whole idea of it turned my mouth to sand and my stomach into an acid rainstorm. I sighed.

"Don't worry, Ms. Skeeter," I said softly. I pasted a smile on my face. Smiling was so irritating – it was a conscious effort to make my face look that pleasant all the time. And she was suspicious, I knew she was. This was the woman who had tried to have me convicted of being a Death Eater and sent to Azkaban. Oh, no, not me. "I don't know how long the story will take. It depends on you. But we've plenty of time before moon rise, so I wouldn't worry about it. Now, of course, there are the basics. Who, what, where, when, how, why. So we'll start with my mum. My mother was... a drinker. And a psychotic bitch. She was also a Death Eater."

Rita Skeeter leaned in, enraptured, as her Quik-Quotes Quill scurried to record all I was telling her. She didn't notice the gleam in I knew had to be in my eye, or the way the sun was sinking inexorably toward the horizon.

I smiled, and began.

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**Author's Note:** said it all either above or last chapter. Yay. Reviews? Oh, and the line about "love is a disease only humans catch, blah blah" is from Faerie Tale Theatre's the Little Mermaid. The sea witch says it.


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